


Fantasize

by ladyarchaeopteryx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyarchaeopteryx/pseuds/ladyarchaeopteryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim obsesses about Sherlock to the point of fantasizing about him, and Moran does his part to help. A bit of power play between Jim and Moran. Sherlock doesn't actually appear in the story, except in Jim's imagination, but I felt it would be appropriate to include him in the pairings. Set sometime in S2, before Reichenbach, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasize

He was thinking of Sherlock. Thinking, perhaps, was an understatement. Thinking was what boring, stupid, mindless regular people did. Jim's brain devoured reality and dissected it, savoured it and reordered it to his liking. Currently his mind was focused on the spark that was the younger Holmes--the one soft chime of clarity amidst the droning hum of the world. The darling innocent detective. Oh, he was clever. He had an impressive mind, to be sure, but he was so naive in his own way, and so far from the darkness that possessed and empowered Jim's soul.

A gunshot went off right beside him, shattering his concentration and nearly stopping his heart for a moment. He whirled around and threw an angry glare towards the madman that was lounging in the armchair there.

Moran just laughed, the sound like the crunch of boots in the woods, rough and discordant. Leave it to Moran to express his desire for entertainment with a gunshot, Jim thought, before he gave a long-suffering sort of sigh and went to take the gun from him. He gave it up without a fight, but grabbed Jim's wrist with his other hand.

"Hey. Why don't you let me fuck you?"

"What a naughty mouth you have," Jim returned, his anger fading into dismissive amusement.

"I know what you want," Moran tilted his head and looked him in the eye. "You can pretend it's him."

Jim looked him over. Languid and long and lean and hard, draped in the chair like a loaded revolver--or maybe a cobra. He might not have much intelligence, but he did have the madness, the darkness in him that bound him to the other. It made him interesting, and that was what Sherlock would never understand. Sherlock had the mind--if only he could grasp the darkness of Jim's reality, how perfect he would be. He and Jim would belong to one another in a way no one else could ever touch. 

"Well?" Moran asked. After another moment Jim shrugged, then nodded, and set the gun aside before he straddled the other. Moran slid an arm around him and rose, lifting him as if he weighed nothing at all. Before he had the chance to express his annoyance over being treated like some romance novel heroine, his back connected with the wall and the larger man was plundering his mouth. He broke the kiss to mutter,

"Put me down, you stupid ape."

"I am a stupid ape," Moran agreed, laughing. He threw Jim over one shoulder, earning a growl of indignation, and carried the other into his room, dropping him down onto the less-than-luxurious mattress he insisted on using for a bed.

"You know what else I am, though," Moran began, crawling over Jim and fitting the buttons of his shirt through their holes, parting the fabric to reveal the Irishman's pale chest.

"I'm a hunter," he continued, curling his fingers around Jim's tie, pulling on it just slightly, just enough for it to tighten around the delicate throat. Jim just looked up at him, his expression unimpressed, save for the glimmer of wariness deep in his eyes. The look of the trainer when meeting the gaze of his tiger with nothing at all between them.

"That means I can smell fear," the madman said to the psychopath, pressing his face to Jim's neck and inhaling his scent.

"And I can smell exhilaration. Thrill. Lust for danger. I may be a stupid ape, but I know a thing or two about men," he said into Jim's ear, fingers stroking over his chest.

"Men, animals like all the rest. I know a thing or two about you. I know you like being a little afraid of me. You know I could kill you fifty different ways before you had the chance to put me down, but you let me do all this to you because you like that you can control me just by being clever enough to predict my thoughts."

"Why, then, would I be afraid at all?" Jim asked, smirking vaguely.

"Because you're clever enough to know just how unpredictable I can be," Moran returned his smirk, and leaned down, biting his throat.

Jim shoved him back and threw a punch, which Moran caught, grinning. He released the hand, which found his hair and gripped it tightly.

"Try that again and I will _hurt_ you," Jim promised him.

"I don't doubt it," Moran agreed, meeting his gaze. After a moment Jim let go, and Moran kissed him again, hard and dominating. He dropped his hands to his boss' trousers, undoing the flies.

"Give me what I want," Jim demanded around the kiss.

"All right," Moran nodded, and pulled the other into a sitting position, at which point Jim turned around to face the wall. The ex-colonel rose to discard his own clothing before returning to the bed, the hard mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

Jim kept his gaze on the wall as Moran's hands slid over him, one around his hips and the other up his chest beneath the loose shirt that still hung open.

"Close your eyes, I know it's him you want," Moran said with a kiss to one shoulder.

"Convince me," Jim murmured, shutting his eyes. He tried to picture the hands on him now as slim and graceful: violinist's hands, scientist's hands. Those hands stroked him, fell to his length and drew it to attention. Lips moved over his skin--he envisioned them as full and soft, like two lovely drapes that, when parted, led one to a voice as deep as death, seductive as a drug and, in his mind, breathing his name. 

Yes, what he wanted was...

He disconnected himself from the hard bed, from Moran's muscled bulk and calloused fingers, and pushed his mind deep into his memories of Sherlock. He called up the scent of him, the translucence of his skin and eyes and the darkness of his hair, long enough that it would brush him lightly with those kisses.

"Talk," he ordered, a little breathless.

"I'll do anything you want," Moran obliged, keeping his voice low. "Anything you tell me."

"Beg me."

"Beg you for what?"

"Everything," Jim hissed.

"Let me please you. I want to do everything to please you. Let me live for you. Let me kill for you," Moran said, affecting a pleading note. It didn't matter--Jim was beyond it. He heard the voice he wanted to hear and he shivered, pleased. It was enough. It didn't matter that Moran couldn't fathom what more he wanted to hear, what he dreamt of hearing in Sherlock's beautiful voice turned raw and desperate, or better yet, confident and tinged with the echo of Jim's darkness. 

He clung to his visions as the other man readied them both, but the fantasy faltered a bit as Moran entered him less than gracefully, too eager in his brutal way, one arm locked like a vice around his boss' waist. Jim dug his nails into the arm, with the result that its hold on him loosened, and Moran began to move within him. His other arm shot out, groping for purchase, and hit the wall. He pressed his palm flat against it and leaned towards it, hunching forward slightly as the other thrust into him with practiced ease.

They no longer bothered with words. Jim felt the sweat of Moran's chest slick against his back, heated flesh pressed to heated flesh. He tried to reclaim the fantasy, tried to imagine Sherlock there, desperate for him, taking him with the intensity of a promise--a promise to save him from the stagnation of reality, the deadly diseased smother of humanity that clutched at him always. Only Sherlock could understand--only Sherlock could rescue him from the solitary Otherness of his place in the world. Rescue him or destroy him, as long as it made him feel alive in the end. Perhaps they were one in the same--he wanted to crush the life and heart out of Sherlock, until Sherlock could make him bleed. The meaningless, frivolous games he played destroyed lives, but so soon died in his heart, each individual disappointment revealing to him the waste of it all. Sherlock would not disappoint him. Sherlock _must not_ disappoint him...

He came with that thought ringing in his ears, the misery of it frightening him. He pushed it aside and focused instead on his release and the power of Moran behind him, coiled and lethal and all his to command.

Once Moran had followed him and withdrawn Jim sank down against the bed, content to linger in the perfect clarity of mind that would remain with him for a few moments. Moran--charming as ever--grunted, grabbed a few tissues, and began to pull on his clothes while attempting to light a cigarette at the same time.

Jim rolled over and watched him, finding the sight somewhat comparable to that of an elephant riding a unicycle.

"Once you've accomplished the apparently difficult task of pulling up your trousers, I've got a job for you," he said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Moran, unfazed by the slight, looked over at him and smiled hungrily around his cigarette.

Yes, it was time to feed the tiger. Time to play another game, to bide his time while he lured Sherlock closer, closer, and fixed his last hopes upon him.


End file.
